


Just Desserts

by Thamys020



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare, ShakespeaRe-Told
Genre: French duff, I can't remember Malcolm's last name fuck, I have to write about him, I saw gay chef macbeth, LATER, M/M, Morning After, and Malcolm was a stoner and I was like: god idiot, don't worry regularly scheduled soft malc will happen, he's a good man, meanwhile in "tam shut the fuck up land", now it is stoner Malcolm time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:55:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24319939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thamys020/pseuds/Thamys020
Summary: Sometimes you've gotta do it to them
Relationships: Macduff/Malcolm
Kudos: 2





	1. Crème Brûlée

**Author's Note:**

> stoner Malcolm is not the BEST Malcolm but he's funny so there

Malcolm took a long drag on his cigarette. The boys were sometimes weirded out by his insistence to get out of the kitchen as much as humanly possible and never failed to remind him “ _ Joe _ never left the kitchens even on break” to which Malcolm would respond “Yea well Joe murdered a whole family.” which he knew was cruel but frankly didn't care. 

“Hi.” Well speak of the devil. Malcolm looked up to see Freddy sit down next to him. The kid looked back at the wall Malcolm had been staring at for the past minute. 

“Nothing interesting going on over there.” Malcolm said. “Trust me, kid.” 

He and Freddy had developed a bond mostly over “Joe Macbeth killed my dad” not that Malcolm gave two shits and a rat’s ass about what happened to his dad he just supposed Freddy needed someone to talk to. 

“Why are you always hiding?” Freddy asked. 

“Can I not hide?” Malcolm asked. 

“And smoking. Peter says smoking is bad for your lungs.” Freddy continued. 

“Peter said that, like he’s an expert.” Malcolm mumbled. 

“He says if you keep smoking there will be so much smoke in your lungs you’ll die.” Freddy said. 

“That’s not how smoking works.” Malcolm laughed. “Don’t smoke, kid.” 

“Why?”    
“Smoking’s for sad people.” 

“I’m sad.” Freddy pouted, looking as pathetic as he could. Malcolm had to give him credit. The doe-eyes were pretty impressive. “Can I smoke?” 

“You’ve got your whole life ahead of you kid. Smoking is for adults.” 

“I’m twelve! I’m an adult!” Freddy said. Malcolm had his first smoke when he was thirteen, so he supposed it would work out-

_ Malcolm, do not give the kid a cigarette _ . The voice in his head that sounded annoyingly like Peter said. 

“Have to wait until you’re eighteen, kid, sorry.” Malcolm shrugged. “Want a juice box instead?” Freddy agreed, so Malcom gave him a juice box and the two sat in relative silence. 

“Malcolm.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you and Peter friends?” 

Malcolm tapped the cigarette on his knee. Were they? There was their limited knowledge of the other, and the Fridays they went out drinking. Was that friendship? 

And then there was  _ The _ Friday Night to consider. The night when both Peter and Malcolm had been drunk and buzzed and Malcolm had woken up in Peter’s bed, which was his  _ wife’s _ bed for god's sake. Malcolm remembered enjoying it. He never asked Peter about it though. Because who would want that stigma attached to them? “Yeah I slept with my old boss’ son who is perpetually stoned”. No one as sensible as Peter would want to tie themself to Malcolm Docherty, stoner extraordinaire. 

“I dunno kid, ask him.” Malcolm said. 

“You’re my friend, Malcolm.” Freddy slurped his juice box really loud. 

“You don’t want to be my friend.” Malcolm said, an ache in his chest. Freddy was too good to attach himself to Malcolm. And with Freddy would come Peter, who Malcolm couldn’t even speak to without his chest squeezing up and the sudden urge to dive off a bridge popping into his head. 

“Why not?” Freddy asked. 

“I’m not a good  _ person _ .” Malcolm said. “I’m  _ smoking _ .” 

“You’re just sad.” Freddy said. “Like me. Not a lot of kids want to be my friend either.” 

“Kids are terrible.” Malcolm said. At Freddy’s expression, he backtracked. “No, not you. You’re special. Most kids are horrible little beasts. You’re good company.” 

Freddy giggled, slurping his juice box even louder. Malcolm blew Freddy a smoke ring. 

“When I’m old enough to smoke, could you show me how to do that?” Freddy asked. 

“Sure, kid.” Malcolm said. Hell, he’d teach Freddy how to make smoke figure-eights if he wanted, even though Malcolm wasn’t legitimately sure if that was possible. If this kid had chosen  _ Malcolm _ to be his friend, by god Malcolm would be the best fucking friend in the entire world, whatever that meant. 

“Yay!” Freddy chirped. “I hope I can be as cool as you.”    
That gave Malcolm pause. 

“Like… me?” 

“Yeah! Like a chef and make smoke rings. I can make bubbles come out of my juice box. Wanna see?” He blew bubbles out of the box. Malcolm clapped appreciatively. 

“Nice, kid.” Malcolm said. “Good job.” 

“Can you teach me how to cook?” Freddy asked. 

“Oh.” Malcolm said. “Sure kid. We’ll start with desserts, because I  _ know _ you’re hungry.” 

“No dessert before dinner…” Freddy said. “Peter said…” 

“Is Peter here?” Freddy shook his head. “Exactly. It’s our secret.”

Freddy giggled and Malcolm took him back into the kitchen. He tied an apron around Freddy’s waist.    
“Junior chef coming through!” He yelled. 

“Is that Billy’s kid?” Someone asked. 

“He’s my kid now.” Malcolm said. “If anyone asks to see the chef, tell them I’m advising a new trainee. Send someone up in my place.” 

“Yes chef!” 

“I love you boys!” 

“And girl!” 

“And girl.” Malcolm amended. “Alright, Freddy. Today you are going to make the Creme Brulee of your  _ life _ .” 

“Dad used to make those!” Freddy piped up. “Show me!!”    
“Wash your hands first.” Malcolm ordered. “No juice fingers in my kitchen.” 

“What about smoke fingers?” 

Malcolm sighed. 

“Got me there, kid.” He said, joining Freddy at the sink. They both washed their hands and Malcolm threw his cigarette in the trash with a mournful sigh. 

“First you preheat the oven-” 

“It’s preheated.” Freddy said, pointing at the 300 flashing on the screen. 

“Fucking American ovens is that even the right measurement?!” Malcolm asked.    
“Yep!” Someone else piped up. 

“Great.” Malcolm said. “Anyways then, you get some egg yolks- the yellow bit, Freddy-and…” 

Once the creme brulee was done (Malcolm swapped out the dough so it would take less time), Freddy sat eating his and Malcolm continued decorating and making desserts. 

“So are you and Peter friends?” 

“You already asked, kid.” Malcolm said. “Hand me the blowtorch.” Freddy did. 

“It wasn’t an answer.” Freddy said. 

“Malcolm have you seen-” Peter came down. “Oh. Hello Freddy.” 

Freddy handed Malcolm the creme brulee. 

“Traitor.” Malcolm said. Freddy giggled. 

“Are you and Malcolm friends?” Freddy asked. 

“I…think so?” Peter said. “Ask him.” 

“That’s what he  _ said _ !” Freddy whined. “You’re both idiots.” 

“You wanted to be my friend, kid.” Malcolm said. 

“Anyways, Freddy. I’m off shift. You’re going to bed.” Peter said. “Malcolm?” 

“Yeah?” Malcolm said, chest fluttering.

“See you tomorrow.” Peter said. 

“See you tomorrow Malcolm!!” Freddy said. 

Malcolm watched them go, then went back to his desserts. Maybe he could take a break in a couple minutes. 


	2. Chocolate Mousse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Macduff reflects. A lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter shut up and also Malcolm stop being an asshole or I'll kill you off

It was hard to talk to Malcolm without Peter remembering  _ The Friday Night _ , and what had happened. Malcolm’s thick accent was low and soft with alcohol. Peter was sure he wasn’t speaking in English, but French, as he often did while drunk. Malcolm had wrapped his arms around Peter’s neck and Peter had kissed Malcolm’s collarbone and Malcolm had  _ purred _ for lack of a better term. The rest of the night was a blissful haze. 

And in the morning, Malcolm was gone. 

He was at work as if nothing had happened, stupid bandana pulling his dark hair from his face, hands shaking as he lit cigarette after cigarette until he got ordered by the other chefs to take his smoking outside. Peter wanted to talk to Malcolm, but Malcolm clearly didn't want to talk about  _ The Friday Night _ . 

So Peter respected that. 

It was almost as if before that night, there was something unspoken between the two of them, keeping them tied together, and now that they had done whatever they had done that night the spell was broken, and Peter was left to pick up the pieces while Malcolm moved on, uncaring and floating above it all as he always did as if he had  _ wings _ and he was only tethered to the earth through Freddy and the restaurant, and his stupid orange bandana and Peter was stuck on earth with everyone else. 

Peter would take the dishes from Malcolm and take them up to the restaurant and when they asked to speak to the chef, Peter would go downstairs and touch Malcolm on the shoulder and ask if Malcolm could kindly come upstairs with him because someone wanted to  _ meet the chef _ and Malcolm would ask for table and order, before sending the chef in charge of that meal up instead, as if he was scared to be alone with Peter for even a few seconds.

What was he so scared of? 

Admittedly, if Peter had woken up first, woken up with Malcolm sprawled all over his bed, he would have freaked out too. He’d thought of his wife and his little girls when he’d woken up with the bed empty and the only reminder Malcolm had been there was an imprint on the bed and the hazy memories. Peter had remembered his wife, his sweet wonderful wife, and cried and mourned because it was all so fresh. It had been _ months _ and he’d jumped in bed with his  _ boss _ . 

But he’d collected himself and resolved that he would get over it and go out with women again and forget Malcolm had ever been in his bed once and they could go back to normal. 

But then he’d gone into work and seen Malcolm and his chest had swelled like a balloon before Malcolm had started to avoid him. 

This wouldn't  _ work _ . He’d gotten married because he had told his wife how he felt. Why couldn’t he just tell Malcolm that whatever had happened they could put it behind them and be friends again?

Because it wasn’t true and Peter Macduff was in love with his younger boss and it sucked. There was no other way to say it. 

He decided to confront Malcolm about it. About  _ The Friday Night.  _ They’d go back to their definition of normal, which would be drinks and talks of their fathers and stupid shit like oysters and squid. Malcolm was Irish, so he kept calling the squids “big mother of suck” no matter how many times Peter told him to just call them  _ squid _ . When Malcolm was drunk he liked to laugh. It was a loud laugh that made Peter’s chest warm. 

And of course how surprisingly gentle Malcolm was with Freddy. It should have shocked Peter, but somehow he found it didn't, not really. 

“We need to talk.” Peter said. Malcolm looked up from his plate. 

“Table five.” He said, handing the plates to Peter. 

Peter rolled his eyes and took them upstairs, before returning. 

“I’m serious, Malcolm.” He said. “We need to talk.” 

“About what?” Malcolm asked, but his hands shook as he finalized a dish. “Table 2.” 

Peter took the dish up and then returned. “About that Friday.” 

Malcolm froze. The kitchen chatter buzzed behind him. “There’s nothing to talk about.” He said, voice cold. “I was drunk. You were drunk. It was a mistake.”    
“But was it a mistake?” Peter asked, whole world tilted on its edge. It had never occurred to him that Malcolm wouldn't feel the same way. “Did it...mean anything to you?” 

Malcolm looked up at him with the same whiskey-colored eyes Peter had seen in his dreams and then back down at his dish. “Table 7.” He said at last. 

“Malcolm-!” Peter snapped, before taking a deep breath and taking the dish up. He returned. Malcolm was focused on a new dish. 

“Please, just tell me.” Peter said. “Answer my question.” 

“Why does it matter?” Malcolm asked. 

“It meant something to me.” Peter said. Malcolm was quiet. 

“Table 4.” He said finally. Peter practically ran up and down back to Malcolm, who was rubbing his face. 

“So?” Peter asked. 

“It did.” Malcolm said quietly. “You don’t want to date me though.” 

“What.” Peter blinked. 

“You-You’re too  _ good _ to attach yourself to me.” Malcolm said. “Why would you want to? I’m just- I’m a good fuck, I think, I hope. I’m a good fuck, right.” 

“You’re seriously concerned about your performance in bed.” Peter said.

“Table 1.” Malcolm said. Peter sighed and took the plate back upstairs. He came back down. 

“So my point  _ is _ I’m seriously not worth it, and you’re making a huge mistake.” Malcolm said. “You seriously want my name and reputation attached to yours? You’re so…” He gestured inarticulately. “You’re too good for me.” 

“You’re the owner of a 3-Star restaurant.” Peter said. 

“I’m a stoner.” Malcolm rebuked. “I smoke. And people hide their fucking kids from me. I have tattoos.” 

“You have tattoos?” Peter asked. Malcolm flashed a proud smile. 

“Table 3. And yes, I do.” 

Peter made one of the other waiters take it up. “When did you get them?” 

“A while ago.” Malcolm shrugged. “I was kind of buzzed at the time.” 

“We’re getting off topic.” Peter said. “Do you…Do you feel the same way I do?” 

Malcolm went silent. Not an apologetic silence. More of a terrified silence. Peter could usually tell with those things. He gave a slow nod. 

“May I kiss you, Malcolm?” Peter asked. 

Malcolm looked down at his hands, which were empty, and mumbled “Table 2.” 

“Malcolm you don’t have a plate.” Peter said. 

“Oh.” Malcolm said. 

“So may I?” 

“Sure.” Malcolm said. So Peter did. 

Turns out they both could kiss very well when they were sober. 


End file.
